But Simple, Really
by Stacey Verda
Summary: He’s browsing the newspaper, waiting for her to call, and it’s just there, staring back at him from the classifieds.


This is just a pretty tame, fluffy little ficlet set between seasons two and three that I sort of forgot to post. It's been hanging around forever and I figured I might as well share, so enjoy.

Three weeks after he holds her together as she breaks apart, her dad is alive, his father is dead, and they've settled back into the pattern that's been on hold since the summer before, except this time there are no murder charges or revenge vendettas wedged between them.

He's browsing the newspaper, waiting for her to call, and it's just there, staring back at him from the classifieds. One bedroom, one bath, living room, new kitchen, fully furnished, great view. He rips it out and stuffs it in his back pocket, calls the number the next day. He makes an appointment and they drive together, the windows down and her feet bare against the dashboard. The sun rests light and warm on his shoulders as her fingers lace with his.

The house is perfect; it's on the outskirts of Neptune with the Pacific as its backdrop. She asks the realtor questions about the neighborhood and plumbing and tries to bring down the price, but he doesn't care. He's buying this house; he knew the minute they pulled into the driveway.

He moves in two weeks later. All of his possessions fit into two boxes, a suitcase, and a gym bag; it takes an hour before he feels at home. She comes over that night with a set of blue plastic kitchenware and helps him make the bed. The comforter has creases from being folded in the packaging, but the cotton feels soft between his fingers and the corners aren't tucked in so tight he can't slide between the sheets and no one else has ever slept in it before. They fall back against the bed and she tucks her head under his chin, telling him what her dog did and what her dad said and what she wants for dinner as his hand finds its place at her hip.

They're eighteen and more grown up than they have any right being, so they take what they can get. She stays over when her dad is out of town and they wake tangled, squinting against the morning, weighing the pros and cons of joining the world. He cocoons himself in cotton and sunshine and they lay in bed until two, twisted and whispering and giggling in filtered sunlight. She goes to make breakfast, and when he finally gets up, she's standing in the kitchen, offering him half a bagel and wearing his t-shirt. He wraps her up in him, kisses her neck, smiles into her hair because she's letting him touch her, letting him map his fingerprints all over.

Later, they shower in the ocean and slowly dry in the sand. She's draped over his lap and he traces, up and down her arms, the feelings that can't form into words and the memories he'll never say out loud. There is sand in the sheets and her smell in his pillows and it's not permanent, he can't let himself believe something like that anymore. But he's bruised, not broken. Old sores are scabbing over and he's remembering how to breathe again without the constant pressure of heartache against his lungs.

So they wander barefoot through the surf, track wet sand and salt water through the house. They share ice cream and play cards on the front porch as the light fades; she crawls into his lap and they count the stars as they come out in waves. They're in love but they know life is short, from example and practice and too many close calls. This has been too hard and too painful for too long; they're going back to the basics, relearning each other through skin against skin and conversations about nothing and cloudless blue skies that fade into quiet twilights.

He whispers it against her neck as they slowly fall asleep, folded in each other, moonlight soft against his face. It takes her a while, but when she whispers it back, he stops thinking about leather belts, stained concrete, engraved lighters, bus crashes, drunken flings and mistakes and a too-cold summer night on a hotel roof top. He just smiles and kisses her shoulder as she sighs into him.

The distance between Point A and B is long, twisted, convoluted and confused. It's innocence lost and gained, misplaced hate and carefully constructed insults, rescue missions and unexpected kisses. Falling, standing, slipping, and unspoken understanding. It's beautiful and epic and understated and complicated.

But simple, really.


End file.
